How the French and the Fire Ants Stole Saturday

I considered telling this story earlier, but thought it to be slightly tactless. After writing about the stick-on bra fiasco of 2011, I figured to hell with tact. It was never really that fun anyway.

It was a Friday.

I had gotten off work early and decided to drive up where the Baby Mama (remember the big bay mare I was breeding to Sir Sinclair, the super stud? That one.) was living. As you all know, baby mamas get fairly upset when you don't see them often, and since my little bundle of joy's well-being(and price tag. ahem.) depends on a good personality, I figured any time convincing Baby Mama that I was awesome was time well spent.

So, I took the hour drive, music blaring and windows down. I enjoyed the sun; I enjoyed the peace. I turned the music up so loud that I couldn't hear the tiny alarms going off inside my head..

Now, if you've ever had anything horrible happen, you know that sometimes there's this voice in the back of your mind going, "Hey, you up there! Remember this? Hey! Seriously, man, you missed the turn!"

(I do not have this voice for directions. Not in the least. You can ask my father, who will promptly tell you that he tracks me for a reason.)

And in the back of my mind that day was that itch..

At one point in my life, I had something clipped out of a magazine that read: My mound of dirty clothes will never grow higher than the average garden gnome. That day, I had not only beaten the average garden gnome by several feet but had also grown my pile large enough that it would not have fit in the largest person's fattest fat pants.

I needed to wash laundry. Bad.

I don't think I had in about three weeks, and I'm 90% sure my dirty clothes pile had become a clubhouse for every creepy crawly critter in a thirty foot radius. Which for those of you living in clean suburban houses isn't so bad, but for those of us who - oh, I don't know - live in a CAMPER next to a BARN, a thirty foot radius includes at least a trillion species of multiple-legged foreign delicacies.

Yum.

Now, if you've been reading, you know that the barn dogs suckered their way into Clark. Well, the dogs took to the giant laundry pile like fish to water: wallowing around, sighing contentedly, enjoying the aroma of sweat-soaked socks and dirty shirts. They'd get particularly miffed when I'd break out the Febreze in an attempt to avoid going to the laundromat.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

But despite the looming mound of laundry, I was enjoying myself in perfect weather on a perfect Friday afternoon. And then I sat down.

I sat for a second before I felt the first sting. I brushed my hand over the spot.

Then I felt the second sting. "What the-?"

I jumped up with the third sting, and I think the sudden movement made them all decide to grab hold. All 1,945,321 fire ants. (Just a rough estimate of the bites that ranged from my ankles to my lower back..)

I have never dashed for a hose so fast. I turned it up as high as it would go and began spraying those suckers like the last scene in a gangster movie. I would have done the mobster laugh, but unfortunately, I'd been reduced to a flailing, squealing mass.

"What.. Are.. You doing??" Baby Mama's owner stepped from the barn to find me, dancing around while spraying water at a breakneck speed down my shorts.

In the midst of pained squeaks, I managed feebly. "Fire ants.."

She turned inside to get some paste to take the sting out. (Which is a lie. None of those things work. None.) By the time she got back, I had washed away my little red buddies and had finally reduced myself to just twitching when I thought I felt the quiver of six legs dashing up my thigh.

Now, I'm pretty tough. Broke my elbow, no tears. Been trampled, kicked, stepped on, bitten. I'm scarred, permanently bruised, and I have nerve damage in various body parts. I'm here to tell you:

1 hour + a gazillion fire ant bites + driving home = Not fun.

On every bump, dip, and turn, the bites would scrape across Kent's all-of-a-sudden bristle sharp seat. The bugs had transformed my driving into that of a ninety year old woman. I think I got honked at twice, and not because I looked pretty.

At home, I toddled into my camper, swallowed some medicine, passed the laundry pile (I swear something croaked hello at me..), and collapsed into my bed. From ankles to back, I was swollen fatter than a well-fed tick.

The mass amounts of allergy meds helped me slip into a slightly uncomfortable slumber. I think I dreamed the creatures in my laundry mutated into giant mega-flamethrowing ants, but I can't be certain.

I woke up in a cold sweat.

Now, I did the morning feeding every Saturday, so I pulled myself from bed. I downed more medicine and rubbed myself down with more itch-calming ointment. (It really does reduce the itching.. You're so busy trying to figure out how to scrape it out of your now stinging wounds that you really don't have time to scratch.)

Then I did what every liberated woman this side of the Mason-Dixon line would do. I found a giant pair of basketball shorts stolen from my 5'11 brother years earlier (You know I love you if I have at least one article of your clothing), and I pulled them on with a giant t-shirt and one of the aforementioned holy bras. (stolen from someone else.. The shirt, that is... Not the bra.) That's right. No panties. Judge if you want to, but I know that:
Fire ant bites + panties = not a smart idea.

It was not a fun feeding. It wasn't horrible, or else I would be able to remember it with a cringe and a cuss word. But I doubt it was good.. You try feeding 20 something horses with a smile on your face as your bug bites compare notes.

"Yeah, I'm really annoying her! Life rocks!"
"No, no, no, dude. I'm the more annoying one. Getting in her joints was a gnarly idea!"
"Listen, bros... She can't sit down without thinking about me."
"Hells yeah, man. That's rad."

So, yeah. Not a happy camper. I finished feeding and crawled back into Clark, wondering if it were ethical to take Nyquil at 9 in the morning. Can't be miserably bug-bit when you're in a cough syrup dream.. Kidding!
Kind of.

Well, my morals (and I promise they're in there, deep down) got to me, so instead of drifting into a nice sleep, I lay there trying to ignore the bug bites and the little voice reminding me I needed to get my laundry done. Around noon, I got sick of being completely pathetic and not having anyone to whine to (teenaged, obviously), so I wandered back up to the barn, trying to look as pitiful as possible.

I blame my dad for this. He LOVED taking care of my brother and I when we were/are sick.. Soup, medicines, playing video games... I swear, the man knows more about medication than your local pharmacy, and with the help of Google, he's practically a doctor. So naturally, my brother and I both play up that sick card like Munchausen patients and expect someone to lovingly dote on us.

It only took one bout of stomach sickness to clear up that being sick away from home SUCKED royally, and having half my body ravaged by little poison factories was no different.

The Boss Mare was riding the Princess, a lovely 4 year old by Contucci, and boarders were popping in and out to watch. I grabbed a chair and gingerly eased myself into it. "Girl, you want to try her?"

Um, YES. Without a second thought to my nasty bites, I sprung from the chair and quickly made my way back to the camper to change. I found a pair of clean riding tights, a not-so-giant shirt (OCD about how I look in the mirrors.. I like my lines to be perfect, and my shirts tucked in.), but as I began to change, I realized I needed one thing.
Underwear.

I began digging through the camper for a clean pair, and after about five minutes, all I could find were a pair of frilly French panties. Now, the first time I saw these, I loved them. My best friend had just gotten home from Europe and had brought me chocolate from Belgium and my choice of real, authentic French underwear. No girl passes an opportunity up like that. The first time I held them up, I remember thinking how grown up I was, with my fancy and sophisticated underpants.

I stared at them, with their lace rear end and the pretty bow. The same sophistication didn't hit me. I didn't feel grown up or awesome or even mildly pleased with myself. I did, however, feel the sinking sensation that this was probably not going to be an absolutely pleasant experience.

For once in my life, I was right.

I made my way back to the barn, walking kind of funny in my tight riding pants and my lacy underthing. "Want to switch saddles?" I called to the Boss Mare.

"No, just ride in mine." I paid no mind to this. Frankly, I was too busy blocking the feeling of lace against my bug-bitten derriere. That tends to be distracting.

I got on the mounting block and swung up on to the Princess. The minute I hit the saddle, I realized..

I was in the Boss Mare's tiny saddle that hugged me in all the wrong places. My rear, thighs, and calves were all rubbing against the saddle. And worst of all, crammed in between the tiny saddle and my fire ant bites were a pair of lace panties that could only be compared to some kind of human flesh grater by this point.

Oh, wait. That's not all.. The horse is a four year old, 17.2 mare. Which, for you non-horsey people, means she's giant and still a "baby".

If you listened to the people watching, the ride went well. The horse settled nicely, connecting to the bit and working easily. I did not.. I tried posting; I tried sitting. I tried deep breathes, imagining unbitten skin and a world free of fire ants. A world where my comfiest granny panties were always available, itch creams actually worked, chocolate was calorie free, and I was no longer trapped in the French knickers of doom and despair.

In other words, heaven.

Later that day, I peeled off the tights and hell panties. (literally peeled. I think my bites tried to glue my clothing to my body...) With a groan, I flopped back into bed yet again, unable to sit at the kitchen table. Unwilling to dress up and go out.

As I lay there, I finally heard the little voice fussing about my rapidly growing insect metropolis, otherwise known as the laundry pile.. Still not washed.

The moral of this story is always do your laundry like you might sit in a fire ant hill, still want to ride, and desire not to be rubbed raw by the French torture panties of doom.

If you don't.. Listen to experience talking.
It's a hell of a ride.

-- Girl

(NOTE, cartoons coming soon.)
(SECOND NOTE, hyperbole is alive and well on this blog!)

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Blame It On The Rain.

If there's one thing I like more than attractive waiters or the perfect half-pass, it's rain.

I miss those working student days the most.. Raindrops drumming me awake, splashing against my legs as I fed. Brushing against my cheeks, getting caught in my eyelashes. I even liked riding in the rain, in an indoor or outside. Those days, I'd turn on soft classical music, and let the rumble of thunder add to the crescendo.

The Boss Mare rode to the droll sounds of National Public Radio. So one rainy morning, I tacked up her second horse and led him down to wait for her. I plopped into a chair near the arena entrance.

Stalled horses dozed in their stalls - some with their heads low in the corner, others sprawled out in their shavings. The sounds of rain and thunder mixed with the scratchy tones of liberal media.

It was a cocktail more potent than Nyquil. The gelding, not immune, drooped his nose into my lap. He cocked his hindfoot up to rest, closed his eyes.

I leaned back in the chair as I scratched his ears and neck, feeling woozy and heady from the drum of Mother Nature and some carefully twisted media. I yawned. My eyes began to blink shut. My limbs felt filled with lead....

And then with a start, I woke up. I jumped, and the gelding jerked away from me.

The Boss Mare stood alongside her first mount. Her hand rested on her hip, and her head tilted to one side. "Were you... Sleeping?"

"Uh. No?"

We traded horses as I wiped the drool from the side of my mouth.

I wish I could say that was the only time she found me drifting off in the chair... Maybe later I'll tell you about how I love hot summer afternoons with Wishbone Ash puffing from the speakers.

Until then,
Girl

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The Price We Pay

In a recent conversation, the following statement was made about our indoor arena:

"Looking at the money, I just don't see how she'll ever be able to justify building it."

Yeah, indoors can be extremely pricey.

But I have a question: Honestly, how many of our horse habits (looking from a money perspective) are justifiable?

Mine certainly isn't.
My saddles cost $4000; my tall boots are well over $200. Breeches and riding tights combined? I have about 7 or 8 pairs, the cheapest I got on sale from Dover for about $20. On top of that, I have gone through a decade's worth of helmets. Add in enough bridles for a small cavalry, girths, saddle pads, riser pads, stirrup pads, bits, bell boots, gallop boots, bucking straps....

And that's just the beginning. Then you have the farrier every six weeks, vet bills, medicines, lessons, trailers, trucks, BIGGER trailers, BIGGER trucks, everything but the kitchen sink and reliable human band aids to go in the trailer, hay bags, shipping wraps..

Not to mention Horse, a medley of prenatal and post-birth costs.

Can I justify any of that?
I certainly am not rich. (I live in a camper that doesn't even have an indoor bathroom, for crying out loud.)
I do come from a well-off family, but my mother also has a deep horse addiction.
2 addicts, one household.. Does not a rich family make.

The answer: I cannot.
I cannot reasonably justify spending hundreds of thousands of dollars.

But during long bareback trail rides, breathing the stride after a perfect oxer, teaching little kids diagonals, dancing somewhere down the centerline, I get all the justification I need.

Until next time,
Girl

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Girl, Glitter, and the Giant Pasture.

WARNING:: This post contains teenaged reasoning, horses behaving badly, and a Super Mario Brothers reference.. Proceed at your own risk!!

Like I said before, that Monday had been perfect. The only glitch had been around ten in the morning. The Boss Mare had forgotten to tell me one of our riders was coming, so I'd thrown her pony out with the big herd. The rider wasn't mad though and disappeared to catch the aforementioned pony. On a sidenote, I had asked if she would like me to go catch him. I think she regretted telling me no.

More than a half hour later, she came back, wiping sweat from her brow. I felt bad but was EXTREMELY happy that I hadn't had to make the trek myself. It's a long way from home.

So, as luck would have it, I ended up walking the same path... Multiple times.


Feeding started at 4 PM, like normal. I had my little schedule down, with hose downs included (When it's that hot out, hosing one's self down is ESSENTIAL. I'm sure our neighbors were thrilled.). I brought in the first group of horses, no problem. Then I hiked out to get our second group.... And they were nowhere to be found.

I called. "Come on!" Nothing, nada. They had disappeared down the beaten path into our 40+ acre pasture. That needed bushhogging about as bad as I wanted a farmboy(Wesley from the Princess Bride, anybody?), which was pretty freaking bad.

Of course, I didn't have my cell on me, so I hauled butt back to the barn, making sure to fix up the gates so I could run the last horses out. I rang up the Boss, who informed me to hike back out there and make sure no one was dead or colicking or missing a limb - you know, any of the mass amounts of thing horses get into.

Here's where I made the mistake.

I decided to run my last group of horses out of the barn. Not that big of a deal. Except GLITTER.

I had been warned. I take full responsibility for the next three hours of what happened.

Glitter has to be led out to her pasture instead of running down with her herdmates because, frankly, Glitter is an insufferable cow about some things. Some things like the color orange, which happens to be the color of the flimsy barrier between the gate and the fence. It's genius, really. All the horses can see it, and they all veer neatly into their paddocks.

Except Glitter, who at the very sight of orange bows up like a three year old on pixie sticks. She must break through it. I didn't believe them. Now I do.

We were to the gate when I pulled her halter off, and she spotted the orange. She charged, busting through that orange tape like it was an Olympic finish line. Now, none of this would have been as bad, save for the fact that the gate to the 40+ acre pasture from hell? Wide open. It wouldn't have been more inviting if I had handwritten the chestnut mule a WELCOME banner. Watching her hightail it out, knowing that:
A) It's 40+ acres of waist high weeds,
B) She is not the easiest sucker to catch,
and
C) There already were 6 or 8 other horses out there
Made me say some VERY not nice words. Halter in hand, muscles cramping, feet blistering, I took after her.

Thirty minutes later, I had her caught. My boots were ruined, of course, because of some unexpected water damage (No one told me there were creeks back there!). As I led her back, she started licking my arm. Girl, the human salt block. Though not ready to forgive her, I was too tired to fend off her affections. "Stop, Glitter." I told her with the same enthusiasm you have when you realize the last piece of birthday cake has been eaten.

I heard him before I saw him. Bubba, all 17.3 hands (15.3 of which must just be legs), galloping as if he were on the final stretch of Rolex. I put a deathgrip on Glitter's lead rope. Dear Lord, I had come too far, and I was not losing her fat, shiny chestnut butt for anything.

He galloped through the creek, muddy water splashing up high enough to drench a normal human, and then right on past us. Well, Glitter, reminded of her Thoroughbred ancestors, sat right down on that shiny rump, spun, and took off. I had the briefest sensation of air skiing before I hit the ground, looking up just in time to see Glitter buck her way past the treeline. Lead rope trailing.

I and my muddy boots went after her again. Dirt smudged across my forehead. Sweat dripped down my back. My stomach growled. But I never give up, and by God, I had come too far.

Now, if you took a giraffe and a dog and a horse and a dinosaur, and you mangled all the pieces together, you would come up with Bubba. So, when he spotted me walking across the pasture, he was very.. intrigued. Now, I don't know about the rest of you, but I prefer giant three-year-old warmbloods be intrigued by grass or their fellow ponies or alien invasion. Anything but me.

I noticed how low the sun had gotten by where it threw the shadow of his head. Which happened to be extremely close to the shadow of my body. I spun around, and he jumped back. "Hi. Go away."

I made shooing motions, which he took as an invitation to be petted. He stuck his nose out. "No, Bubba. Go."

I made a point by turning around and continuing walking. He lagged behind for a second, and then the giant shadow of his head started bobbing after me. I spun back around. He stopped. I walked; he walked. I had the bizarre feeling I was in Super Mario Brothers' castle levels, where the ghosts chase you unless you look at them. In case you didn't know, the ghosts kill Mario.
This was not comforting.

Well, I managed to catch Glitter again. I made it all the way back to the gate, where the chain had fallen alongside one of the groundwires of the electric fence. (I believe that's what it was.) I squatted and grabbed for the chain... And hit the wire. It was like someone reached in and Tasered my brain. I screamed bloody murder and lost (this is just a rough estimate..) 4.5 years off my life before I could even register what happened.

Pride, feet, and brain aching, all I wanted was to call my mom and complain about the horrible day. I threw Glitter in her right pasture and went back up to the barn. My cell was on the bench, but when I got there, it was gone. That's when it hit me.

I had taken the phone into the Hell Pasture.

It was 7:45PM.

I prayed the entire way back out to the pasture. "Lord, if there is a Lord, please let me find this cell phone and not let it be stepped on or wet or dead. I'll give up cuss words. Most of the time. I'll fast; I'll go to church every Sunday. I'll give up gossip. Please, please, please. PLEASE LET ME FIND THIS PHONE."

By the time I had walked through the entire small pasture attached to the giant 40, I had lost all hope. My $250 present to myself had fumbled into the sixth dimension, where lost cell phones and disappearing socks go to die. I was bawling, but that may have been a result of the brain cells lapsing from the electroshock therapy earlier.

And then, there is a God.

A glimpse of red in a muddy hoofprint. I grabbed it. It was on. Everything worked. I had one missed call from the Boss. I called her back.

"Are you still alive?"
"Yes, and if you heard a scream, your fence is working GREAT."

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Horse and Girl Go to Flight School!

It's my day off here at More Inside Leg Stables.. I'm proud to say that Clark the camper is all cleaned. He sports a fresh baked batch of cornbread on his counter, red beans and rice tucked into his fridge.

I thought I had lost a ton of weight, and then I realized I had just lost feeling in my thighs. All feeling has returned now. I'll admit it...
I'm a little bummed.

But enough about me, my sweet little girl has become a TEENAGER. Let's face it, three year old horses are about like fifteen year old humans. She's just broke out of her training bra, is hot to trot, believes she knows it all, and resists any kind of authority. I'm like..
PAUSE, pony. I'm the teenager! I'm supposed to be the irrational one! But alas, our days are filled with:
"Biting is NOT nice."
"QUIT IT."
"(insert not nice words), (insert not nice words) !!" (Those of you with teenagers understand..)

I rode her for the first time on Thursday, just a little after I lunged her. She was good, but she might have still been a little dizzy from doing spiral-ins on the lunge. (for you horsey people, GREAT exercise for any level of pony. Gets balance/brain going. I love it!)

Then Friday rolled around.. And Horse and I went head-to-head for the turn-on-the-forehand. For sake of history, call it our Cold War... Had someone actually dropped a bomb.

"Okay, slow her down. Ask her to move off your inside leg.." Boss Mare called. "Tell her to WAIT for you."

Horse blatantly ignored me. She tucked her sweet little nose back and breezed right on. Now, all of you riders out there are probably quivering in your boots because this is a GIANT no-no in the dressage world. For non-horsey people, this is the equivalent of your kid agreeing with you, and then just doing what they want anyway. (Kids, this is very effective if you can make it where your parents don't know you did it... Just saying!)

So, I took her rump over to the wall where she can't walk off as easily and asked again. Now she flat out resisted, wringing her tail as if I'd just asked her to jump the Empire State building. "It's a good thing you're young." Boss Mare said in the midst of giving me several (AKA 100) instructions.

Horse, however, objected worst when my tactics got more effective. I felt her coil up beneath me, and with the wall in front and any sideways or backwards motion blocked, she did what any good military would do.

She went for the skies.
Her front legs reached as if to climb the wall. I brought my right rein to the side, pulling her back from sky to earth. Boss Mare had already uncurled herself from her seat and strode across the ring with this determined glint in her eyes that would make the worst convict pause. I fought my anger down to finish with a decent ride. (no fear, surprisingly. I suppose I'll develop that emotion at 20 years with the rest of my brain..)

"We're both going to be better people because of her." Boss Mare said later, as Horse stood in the cross ties with a rebellious expression still hidden under several layers of sweat.

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